I looked at the standards some of the soldiers carried. A pick, a hammer and moons design, gems and stars on another. Some of the soldiers had brown and blonde beards all in braids, yet most were gray. The steps in steel plate, shields and hammers clanking closer, I had to raise my voice to speak to my son.
“Fazurand son, dwarves of Fazurand! Likely they are headed to Marlennak in the mountains!” One of the dwarves broke off from the formation with his hand raised toward me. I returned the gesture, Ranny and her family now behind me as well.
“Greetings there, ye’ be the Lord of Azarris then?”
The soldier spoke Agarian, and seemed to know of me. I eyed him, never having seen him before. Blonde bushy eyebrows, at least thirty braids of hair and beard that hung over his shining silver plates.
“I am.” I lied, by name I was I suppose, but the powers that be had placed me here after my release, it was not mine by blood or inheritance. Though no one would likely ever know besides myself.
“Ye’ don’t look like him, unless ye’ be growin’ younger. And yer’ accent sure ain’t Shandorian neither, me lord.”
“He passed away, seven years ago actually, I was raised, north of here, shall we say.”
“Ah, sorry to hear of it. So ye’ be the new lord Azarris then?”
“Yes, Sodom, and my son here, is Alessandeir.”
“Well met my lord, little lord. I be captain Kamderr Joudeppe, royal guard of the Moon Hammer o’ Vundren. We o’ Fazurand had permissions then to pass through yer lands when we traveled to Marlennak. Willborne be not a land we care to march through, hostile and treacherous and all. Would ye’ keep the same permissions then?”
“What’s the Moon Hammer?” Alessandeir struggled down again, standing now next to this dwarven captain, his head coming up to the dwarfs chest at only four years.
“Son, the captain is surely busy, come on---“
“No, no, my lord. Tis allright. The Moon Hammer is the voice of our God, Vundren, the God o’ the mountains and forges, God o’ the dwarves. He lives in a place, a big old mountain in the heavens, called Mount Maonell. We protect the Moon Hammer, and he blesses the sons o’ our kings and High Hammers between the dwarven kingdoms.” Kamderr Joudeppe smiled and took a knee next to Alessandeir, now eye to eye with my boy.
“Can we go with Dada? Can we?” He looked up to me, then to Kamderr, then back to me as the entire honor guard for their high priest stopped, all thousand at once.
I looked to the dwarf and smiled, he nodded to me and put his armored hand on my son.
“Sorry lordly lad, but this be official dwarven business, besides, the mountains are too darn hot here in harvest time. Ye wouldn’t have much fun marchin’ for a week straight. Here.” Kamderr dug in his pouch, found something by the raise in his brow, and put it into Alessandeir’s hands.
“What is it?” My son held up a golden necklace, the warhammer flanked by two crescent moons on a pendant, all solid gold.
“Captain, that is not necessary, I appreciate the---“
“Tis fine, Lord Azarris. That, little lord, is the hammer and moons of Vundren. That was me brothers, he passed on a few years back in a war in the Zuran Mountains. I think you could have---“ Kamderr stood as Alessandeir ran back to the keep as fast as he could, pendant in hand.
“My apologies, he is but four years old. Thank you captain Joudeppe, tell your men they may pass and I shall honor whatever the previous lord had arranged.” I smiled, amazed at the formation and discipline of the dwarves of Fazurand that had undoubtedly marched for three weeks in this fashion.
“Thank ye’, Lord Sodom, much obliged and all.”
“Do not mention it, what is the occasion, if you do not mind the pry?”
“King Rallik finally has a baby boy and he needs a blessin’, and King Therrak just had his third or fourth girl. To Marlennak we go, the Moon Hammer commands and such. Any news of the north, Shanador or otherwise?”
Captain Joudeppe took a drink of something that smelled of stale dark beer and smiled. He offered it to me, I refused with a smile, so he took another swig.
“The Shields of Shanador have been ordered by the council of kings and the Aldane. Fifty thousand to Kivanis. They mean to retake Rugeness from Altestan.” I hung my head, knowing that many would die there, and also that Ranny’s sons and grandsons would likely be ordered to fight.
“Ye’ would think with ten low kings, one high king, a hundred knights, and a hundred more lords and four dukes, that Shanador would come to their senses and stop sendin’ their men to die in every other country. Marlennak has two kings, and that is too much sometimes. We have just one in Fazurand, but eleven? Not adding to the wisdom much, far as I can see. No offense, my lord.”
“None taken, my vote was to the nay of sending our men. But, democracy means everyone votes, and the fear of Altestani soldiers and royalty on Agarian soil, means panic.”
“And panic means send a large force n’ kill everything with dark hair and dark eyes. Them northerners deserve it mind ye’, but surely a better plan coulda’ come from that conclave. What’s yer boy doin’ then?” The captain looked past me, toward the hill my son was running down, arms in relentless grip of a leather sack he was dragging.
I watched him struggle, the sack as big as he was, but his determination won out as he set it at the dwarven captains feet. He caught his breath and smiled.
“What be this then, young lord Alessandeir?”
“For you and the Moon Hammer. There is grapefruits, oranges, sausages, bread, and here.” My son handed the feathered cross of Alden, silver on a silver chain, to smiling Kamderr.
“I don’t like the church, so if you have this, I can stay home with my Dada.” Clever indeed, Alessandeir smiled from under his sweaty curls, from ear to ear.
“Ha! Ye’ best get the okay from yer father though. Ha!”
“Tis fine.” How could I say no to my son after such an effort.
“Well then, well met Lord Sodom Azarris, little lord. My thanks and the thanks of Fazurand upon ye’.” Captain Kamderr Joudeppe waved his hand, picked up the sack of food, and put the feathered cross in his pouch.
He turned and bowed to us, and marched ahead with the royal brigade to the west. We waved, Alessandeir more than I, and he even received a few back here and there from the occasional curious dwarven soldier as they passed toward the Misathi.
“Dada?”
“Yes son?”
“Is that the first dwarves you have ever ever in your life ever met?”
“No, I know several in truth.”
“Yeah, but not a Moon Hammer or a king.”
“Actually, I do. Do you remember Azenairk Thalanaxe?”
“He is a Moon Hammer?!” Alessandeir smiled, running back toward our keep, yet pausing to wait for me. I followed, listening to the faint sounds of the marching dwarves fade beyond the foothills.
“No, but I should tell you about his family I suppose. For he is related to kings, did I tell you this already?” I remembered right where I left off, just a few weeks ago.
“Really? No, umm, maybe you did. Tell me anyway, dada.”
“Are you certain son? Tis a bit scary, this part.”
“Tell me, tell me, dada. Please, and let’s have some more juice.” Alessandeir ran back toward our home. I followed, still keeping my awareness about me, still feeling as though my past could catch up at any moment, from any shadow.
“Very well. It was the dreams of home, his childhood, and the myths of his forefathers that had haunted his sleeping mind since he had left Boraduum. Azenairk did not know it then, but his grandfather always spoke of the mines of Kakisteele and their family of Thalanaxe somehow being tied to---”
“Dada?”
“Yes son?”
“When does it get scary?”
“Soon son, soon. May I continue?”
“Allright.”
“So it began when he was very young, still working for study time at the Temple of Vundre
n in Boraduum. His grandfather was out as usual, and his mother and father were…”
Introduction
Azenairk IV:I
City of Boraduum, Bori Mountains 294 A.D.
“Wisdom is not a virtue, it is a gift that all who pay attention to life around them, shall be rewarded with in due time. The feeling of necessity to pass it on to each generation, now that is the blessing of Vundren.”---from the sermons and teachings of Wikramm Miniander, eighteenth Moon Hammer of Fazurand. Circa 1325 B.C.
“Aye! And they say that the blue eyes is for outside, got no luck for nothin’ in the mines or underground. Tis’ why you and your drunken father is nearly outta money!” She slammed her fist on the wooden table in the kitchen.
“Oh aye? Well these blue eyes done fought in four wars for the king, and me father expanded the Thalanaxe mines after fightin’ in three others, Rhosda!” Kimmarik slammed his fist on the same table, legs creaking with each blow.
“Aye! And the mines expanded into nothin’, brave husband, and he done drank what we did have to near less than nothin’. Pentrik Thalanaxe is a known meadpounder now, his drinkin’ be all that be left o’ his legend.” Rhosda Thalanaxe tied her black hair back, not letting her fierce brown eyed stare leave her husbands.
“Oh aye? Watch yer words with me father, woman! He done received this here hammer from the king himself back---“ Kimmarik was cut off.
“Aye! Previous king, wars done back o’er a century or more now! We got nothin’ Kimmarik, and no king givin’ us anything for all that fightin’, we barely had coin for the bread and to pay yer workers in those dead end mines this month.” She caught her breath and started to cough. Her chest had been aching for over a decade, the arguing had not helped it either.
Kimmarik rubbed her back, cooling his temper, looking around their new, smaller, home in the lower south side of Boraduum. Brown rough stone reflected the candlelight and the orange from the hearth. They had only three rooms for sleeping and one main room for cooking and sitting now. It had not always been so, and he hung his head knowing that his wife, mother of their three sons, was speaking nothing but the truth. Kimmarik just refused to accept it.
“I will see what I can do, love. Maybe bishop Dalurthain got some ideas, or hells, even prayers. Got lots on me mind now, battle comin’ n’ all that.” He stroked his graying black beard as he calmed down.
“Father?”
“Aye me boy, me youngest, me pride. Don’t ye pay mind there Azenairk, yer mum and I just be discussin’, tis’ all.” Kimmarik looked at little Zen who was half hidden around the corner, smiling at his boy who had just turned thirteen, rubbing his wifes back to help her cough.
“Father, one o’ the Granvangs is at the door, he wants to talk to ye’.” Azenairk rubbed his stubble, hoping to have a beard like his brothers and father someday, and the family warhammer.
“Aye? Likely trouble down at the tavern again. Get the boys, Kimmarik.” Rhosda managed to sit, eke out a few words inbetween coughs, and then reached for some water.
“Aye. Come on little Agrvund, me warpriest o’ the boldest small stature. Let’s get yer’ older brothers and see what the issue be then, shall we?” Kimmarik had the hammer in one hand and Azenairk’s hand in his other. He could not afford to send Zen to the temple of Vundren for training, so his youngest, blessed as they all knew he was, had been helping out there in exchange for tutelage. He walked out the door to his home and stopped in front of his visitor.
“Thalanaxe, yer’ father got a bit o’ tab that is unpaid as o’ now, care to settle it here?” Erden Granvang tapped his pouch, pulled his black braids of beard, and smiled showing his missing teeth in the front.
“How much?” Kimmarik kept walking, Azenairk with him, he knew where they were headed.
“Be seven gold coins as of this mornin’, maybe more by the time we gets to the pub. Hope ye’ can cover it.”
His smile was as repulsive to Kimmarik as his fat belly and greasy hair and beard. But, debt was debt. This one, the owner of the Pub o’ the Smokin’ Anvil, liked to stretch it out on the meadpounders though. They had fought a few words over tabs before.
“I be getting’ me boys first, see what the trouble and hurry is all about then.”
“Yer’ boys is part o’ the trouble, they be there already.”
“Me boys and I be leavin’ tomorrow to fight for King Nalanobek in Tuscko, south in the Mountains. They just be celebratin’ a bit early is all, sure o’ that.”
“Ogre and giants past the outdoors in the Bori don’t concern me, Kimmarik. Yer’ father owin’ me pub a lot o’ coin is the issue. Yer boys be just tryin’ to get him out, but they is all young and eager to fight. Tis’ the problem.” Erden kept pace, eyeing the empty pouch of Kimmarik Thalanaxe and casting cross glances at his youngest.
“Me boys ain’t never a problem, barkeep, and I will thud hammers with anyone who dare say otherwise. So shut yer beard before I help ye’ lose a few more teeth.” Kimmarik growled and walked faster toward the underground pub in Boraduum.
The Pub o’ the Smokin’ Anvil was dark, open on three sides, and full of stone tables that numbered over one hundred. A golden anvil stood in the middle on a stone pedestal that connected to the end of fifty feet of brown marble polished bartop. The smoke indeed rose from the embers that were kept hot underneath the anvil, embers that matched the low lantern light of the whole tavern and its sixty or more current patrons.
Kimmarik looked around, then he heard and saw them at the same moment. Stocky Geadrik, his oldest boy, dressed in full plate of a soldier, greaves, steel gauntlets, and a drawn battle axe in his hand. His middle boy, Tadnek Thalanaxe, barely thirty years old now, had the family shield with the twin axes over a moon held out on guard. His helm was on the ground and dented, his head bleeding from a cut, but his battle pick twirled in his hand nonetheless. They stood like battle hardened warriors, surrounded by nearly twenty angry dwarves armed with shortblades, barhammers, and daggers. The table they guarded held no royal king as one would think, but instead sat a wobbly gray dwarf, rambling aloud as he fished for which of the ten or so mugs and flasks before him held any spirits still.
“Ye’ don’t be knowin’ the truth! Truth is, well it be a very long truth, in truth, ha!” Pentrik Thalanaxe laughed to himself, then threw an empty mug between his grandsons. It smacked a patron in the stomach and rattled its steel across the stone floor, tensing every dwarf in the room once more.
“Truth is ye’ be a worthless whiskey-licker, old Pentrik! Now get out, before we does get ye’ out, the hard way!” Surrounding men grew closer, circling like wolves.
“Me papi will be leavin’ soon, so best ye’ back away, Silvunak.” Geadrik tapped his axe to the table and stared at the mob.
“And if ye’ want the hard way, come and get it. I be happy to show ye’ how it’s done then.” Tadnek slammed the flat of his warpick to his shield, smiling to the gathering dwarves that had tired of their grandfather throwing mugs and spouting off.
“Tad! Gead! Enough now boys, the fight is tomorrow, not in here.” Kimmarik walked up to the table, the dwarves making way to let the father to his sons.
“Ahhh, me only surviving son! Look what they done made me do, ya’ see? They, them blasted trollsuckers there made me drink again! They want the box they do, trickin’ me into givin’ it when I be in my mugs too far.” Pentrik spat at the mob of angry dwarves, managing to only hit the back of Geadrik.
“Quiet now father, we needs to get ye’ outta here.” Kimmarik whispered.
“No naye, no! Here, see what they want! Maybe ye’ will just let em have it then, won’t ye? Or maybe yer wife will give it to em’ then when I be dead and in Vundren’s halls?”
Crack!
The rusty iron box slammed onto the stone table, a tied leather bag, a rolled parchment, and an old key sliding out amidst the mugs. It was quiet, the cut on Tadnek dripped a drop of blood onto his armor, everyone heard it as the pub was like a grave for just a m
oment, all eyes on the box.
“Father, put those things away now. This is not the time---“
“Aye shut yer’ beard Kimmarik! The mines o’ Kakisteele be ours, the Thalanaxes they are. Far to the north and the west, in ruined Mooncrest where elves and men and temples be---“ Pentrik fell over, out of his chair, drunk for days and nights on end.
The laughter boiled over as old grayed dwarf, mugs, old junk from a rusty box, frazzled beard and hair, and even the chair all toppled. Everyone laughed, pointed, and shouted at the venerable fool of the Thalanaxe clan. Kimmarik, his three sons, and Erden Granvang were the only ones not finding anything humorous. Little Azenairk ran over, helping his papi to the chair and began picking up the things that he knew went back in the box. He had helped do this before a few times.
“Maybe yer’ luck be better would ye’ head that way then!” One of the Silvunaks piped over the laughter.
“Aye, might be enough gold in Kakisteele to pay for ole’ Pentriks drinks then, maybe!” An Ordrimm threw an insult next. The laughs were hearty, black beards of sixty dwarves bobbed up and down in the shadowy tavern.
“If the Thalanaxes believed in mining as much as fairy tales, then hells, we’d o’ had the whole o’ the Bori Mountains done dug out!” Erden Granvang, having to show some humor in his own pub, tossed another jab of words toward the Thalanaxe clan as Zen helped Pentrik to stay in his chair.
Three dwarves fell down in laughter, it was too much for them to handle as Kimmarik and his two eldest stood while the little one that worked in the temple held up the drunk grandfather. It was an onslaught that they just stood silently and took. Kimmarik looked to the mugs, counted eleven, he did some math quietly.
“Aye! And a six legged demon, the demon o’ curses and ruin, she has our mines held!” Pentrik roared in his stupor over the crowd.
“Father, shut yer beard now, enough---“
“She does, does she!? Maybe it be eight legs? Or perhaps she has but three and ole’ Pentrik be seein’ double!”
The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth Page 2